


oh, grant that i

by salthien



Series: never enough [1]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: M/M, OC male miqo'te WoL, fluff and a tiny bit of angst, let the WoL REST
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-17
Updated: 2019-09-17
Packaged: 2020-10-20 08:43:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20672531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/salthien/pseuds/salthien
Summary: Titles inevitably wear on their bearers; it's difficult to set the mantle of savior-hero-Warrior down, but the Warrior of Light finds himself weary enough try, if only for a few precious moments.





	oh, grant that i

**Author's Note:**

> i've been stumbling over Exarch emotions for two and a half months, that's my excuse for not posting any Exarch/WoL up until now.
> 
> my WoL OC, E'salih Goldenbough, looks like [this](https://i.imgur.com/N7RCMx6.png)! except he has a beard. goddamn character creator not letting me give my boy some scruff.

“You _ do _understand, Thancred?”

The man in question rolls a shoulder, gloved arms crossed over his chest; his gaze is shut against the watery sunlight that filters in through the broad Pendants window, ever open to the gamut of Norvrandtian weather. Today a thin mist covers the uppermost spires of the Crystarium and the waters of the Source beyond. Rain or shine, the weather without had never bothered the room’s sole permanent occupant, by Thancred’s measure. Least of all today, with the Warrior’s attention on anything _ but _the star’s newfound climes.

“You hardly need my permission.” He scoots the fingers of one hand toward the Warrior, as if Thancred means to shoo him out of his pleading posture entirely - in all his years, he had never known the famed Warrior of Light to _ beg _ . Yet there’s no better word for what he’s doing, his request still lingering between them as though if he says any more, Thancred might rescind whatever permissions the man seems to think he _ could _offer.

Silver eyes meet mismatched green-gold, and at last Thancred smiles. He’s strung the Warrior along enough for one day, he supposes.

“Of course, E’salih. Were I to deny you I fear your wrath would not be the only I would face. And if I may confide in you, I fear yours less than _ hers_.”

Relief washes over E’salih’s face as he dips his gaze bashfully to the stone-tiled floor, running a nervous hand through his hair and smoothing the cuffs of his tunic - gestures Thancred finds amusingly familiar even after years of separation on the First. Strange, what details about others might etch themselves upon one’s mind without one realizing.

“Y’shtola told you, then?”

“Indeed, she did. And Urianger, too, who gives his blessings in equal measure.” Thancred dips his head once. “I will inform Ryne, though I can assure you there will be hell to pay should you not deliver news of your intentions to the twins in person.”

“Believe me, they’re next.” Settled at last, E’salih turns to address Thancred much more measuredly than he had for the last quarter-bell, striding the length of the room to offer a hand. Thancred inspects it, eventually lowering his crossed arms to grasp the proffered hand and is promptly pulled into a _ proper _hug by the Warrior. He’s thumped once, twice on the back and returns the gesture in kind, humming a quiet laugh through closed lips.

“Thank you, Thancred. Really. You’ve no idea how much this means to me.”

“I believe I _ might _have an inkling.” Fond amusement still reigns in his tone, but the meeting has gone far too soft for his liking, dangerously close to a sort of friendly affection that’s set him off-kilter in recent weeks. It’s far from his forte, and he pulls himself from the hug a beat later, one hand settled at arm’s length upon the Warrior’s shoulder instead. “You’d best catch them soon. Alphinaud already has designs on returning to Eulmore in a sennight, perhaps less.”

“Right. He told me as much.” A furred ear flickers bashfully, and Thancred’s hand drops to his side once more. “If you catch them before I do, send them my way?”

“Aye. And-”

“Hmm?”

“For all our sakes, let yourself _ relax, _my friend. You know the Leveilleurs will understand just as well as the rest of us.”

“...I’ll do my damndest to, I promise.”

\---

“Provided your intent is not _ avoidance_…”

“Would I be sat here informing you of my plans if that _ was _my intent, Alisaie?”

She knows he can’t help but tease her, his words and smile gentle - she’s never had an older sibling, always and only ever an equal to prod and poke fun at, but she imagines this is close to what it’s like. So naturally, she goes petulant, huffing and pointedly looking away across the Crystarium gardens.

“We are _ hardly _ involved in these plans of yours. I daresay you are allowed to do as you please.”

“Alisaie. You know Salih means well. Why else would he come to us?” Alphinaud chimes in - she’s ready to snap at him, too, and she curses that it is not frustration but concern that laces his tone. He doesn’t deserve her wrath, and neither does Salih.

By degrees she lowers her chin, slacks her arms from their place at her hips. Tamping down on the flare of envy, she is surprised to find Salih _ not _smiling - amused, she would assume, at the petty jealousy she so plainly holds - when she looks back to him. Instead he’s frowning, brows drawn together and up, the picture of well-composed heartbreak.

“Would it truly bother you that much?”

“I…” She begins, starting and stopping as she grasps for the proper words with which to answer his question. Not for the first time, she’s thankful for having grown out of the brief flame she’d held for him, safe and perhaps not as secret as she’d have liked. Its absence doesn’t make finding the words any easier, of course, but it lessens the embarrassment by no small measure. “No. Full glad am I that you’re hale and whole. Truth be told, I’d say you’ve more than earned your respite…”

“But?”

There Alisaie breathes a deep, steadying breath. The breeze carries the scent of lavender from the northern beds, washing the western front of the Crystarium in it. Near enough to the Source variety to provide the comfort of familiarity, it steadies her, grounds her thoughts enough that her words lose their ire.

“But - I only hope you would make some time for us - for Alphinaud and I both, because I _ know _he will miss you as much as I.” She says at last, fully aware of how selfish she sounds in asking at all. Beside her, Alphinaud stands up a bit straighter, gies a bashful laugh that speaks to her accuracy. Lamely, she adds a moment later: “When you are able.”

It’s easier to watch the suspended flowerbeds swaying in the breeze than to look at him, hands curled at her sides. Thus she is unprepared for the sudden arm around her, to be swept into a hug alongside her brother and held close to the Warrior by one strong arm.

“I wouldn’t dream otherwise, Alisaie. By my blade-”

“Bow, you mean?” She can’t resist cutting in with the jibe, voice muffled slightly against the cloth of his tunic. One of her hands curls beneath his arm to hold fast at his back. As if she could have ever _ doubted _him.

“It’s a figure of speech.” She feels his tail flick at her thigh in place of a chiding thump of his hand. Brother indeed; the feigned annoyance in his voice sounds Alphinaud-taught. “By my _bow_, I swear to you, we’ll all spend some _real _time together before long. Without the weight of two worlds hanging over us, for once.”

And that’s enough, she thinks.

\---

Goodbyes have never been the Crystal Exarch’s strong suit. This parting is of the worst kind, drawn-out and lingering - a far cry from the way he’d shut the doors to Syrcus behind him all those years ago. That goodbye had been a whirlwind of heartfelt words he can now scarce remember save for the deep sadness that had ingrained itself upon his heart right alongside the fierce hope that had driven him to the decision in the first place. This… there is no urgency to it, but it is still a farewell, however impermanent.

“Send word once you’ve resummoned our friend.”

In her preparations to dismiss the gathered Scions, Y’shtola shifts her unseeing gaze toward Salih, exchanging a knowing smile that renders him positively _ bashful _ , if the Exarch can still read the set of his ears right. The question of _ why _ she might do so - what the wordless exchange might mean - is only afforded a few scant moments of thought before that smile turns on _ him _, and sets his tail swaying nervously beneath the heavy layers of robes about his waist.

“Oh, and do try to ensure he arrives _ within _the city next time.”

And rightly so - fixed with that gaze, Zodiark himself would struggle not to be cowed. He laughs high in his throat and offers reassurance, placating her as much as the rest of the Scions. The full, easy laughter the room fills with does his heart good, but it does comparatively little to soothe the hollow ache in his chest he’s hells-bent on ignoring.

With his duties done, of course Salih would return to the Source. Were it possible the Exarch would do the same in a heartbeat, follow the Warrior through the portal into the world he’d left behind in all but single-minded purpose a century ago. Many fruitless attempts to cross the rift had stripped him of the immediate disappointment, but what would linger long after was arguably worse: the sight of the Warrior, _ his _ Warrior once-upon-a-time before bestowed blood and destiny had called him away from Salih’s side, stepping through alone. Without friends, without loved ones, without _ him _ \- and little more than a stalemated warfront awaiting him beyond.

But he will be strong, he resolves as Ryne turns to Salih and offers her own gentle goodbye. He will watch Salih go and save the sadness for his private chambers. Better that than further burden the man who already carries the weight of others’ expectations far too heavily.

The Scions filter out one by one as he collects himself. There is no outward evidence of the Exarch’s struggle to combat the bittersweet tightness in his throat, thankfully. By the time the heavy Ocular doors close behind Ryne he is the picture of measured certainty, a soft smile and the flick of one ear greeting Salih’s returned attention.

“Just a moment while I attune the portal, and then you can… be on your way.” The aether coalesces in the cornerstone of his staff as he speaks, turning away from Salih to attend to his duties. He reaches inward, grasping for that thready connection to the Source-

“G’raha, I - wait.”

Both of his ears pin back, breath catching in his throat. The name alone is nearly enough to unstem the tide, to let that selfishness fly free with three words: _'I'll miss you.'_

“Yes, my - friend?” Are the three words G'raha offers over his shoulder instead. He trips over his own tongue, pauses too long before a word that feels wrong leaving his lips when facing down the man - battle-hewn, worn and aged by war and circumstance in the scant years since their parting - that he had fallen so helplessly for beneath the shadow of Syrcus. Particulars they had never cared to sort out until it was far too late to put a proper word to their dance.

“I’d like to stay for a time.”

“E’salih, you needn’t - the First is... the people of Norvrandt will weather your absence ere you return. You have my word.” Excuses tumble to the forefront as he turns to face the Warrior, a thousand and one reasons that might explain away his sudden disinterest in an immediate return to the Source. Anything to quell the hope that flares bright and fluttering in the pit of his stomach and sets his tail twitching beneath his robes.

Suddenly it seems an impossible task to read the set of Salih’s shoulders, the strange expression that colors his face - in it is something like exasperation, but there is a longing in that mismatched gaze that is almost wholly unfamiliar. _ Almost_, because while unrecognizable it nudges some old wound lying deep and dormant within him, unfelt for two centuries of dreamless sleep and yet another of agonizing patience. Unfelt, that is, until _ this moment _ as it reasserts itself, a near twin to the ache that had settled in his breast following their separation.

“Let me rephrase - I want to stay with _ you_.”

G’raha likens the feeling that follows the confession to freefalling, or perhaps being kicked by an amaro. His lungs are suddenly air-starved, heart a jackhammer against crystalline ribs._ Stay _ , the greedy voice within him cries, _ stay forever if you like. _ The impatient youth of eld and the stoic leader of _ now _war within him.

“I am quite fine, I assure you. Do not neglect your duties on my… behalf.”

His words come to a stutter-stop, because the Warrior’s expression has twisted, brow wrinkling - he’s just this side of _ grimacing_.

“My _ duties _ be damned, G’raha. All I’ve done for the last two _ turns _has been my duty.”

And all at once it crystallizes, clear as day, the dissonance between Salih’s words and his own thoughts. A leaden weight, heavy and sickening, settles in the pit of G’raha’s stomach. Hot shame colors his face, made worse by his inability to hide it beneath his now-retired cowl.

“I didn’t - that is not...”

Words fail him at each turn; he is reeling. In his desperation to remain impartial, to allow himself no more selfishness than he had taken in the hours before Vauthry’s fall - he had neglected to ask the one person who mattered most what _ he _wanted.

“I nearly died - _ you _ nearly died for the sake of my _ duty_. The things I must do, sun by sun, turn by turn to forestall Calamity after Calamity… I am _ tired_, and I want… I _ want_.” Voice breaking on the final word, the Warrior wipes angrily at his eyes with the back of a palm, inhaling one shuddering breath. “I thought you would-” His voice catches, again, and he falls silent.

“I- I understand far better than I let on.” In the sparse light of the Ocular the facets of his knuckles flash, his grip tightening around the brass-wrought staff. His Spoken hand fists at his side with the urge to touch - it feels as though an eon passes in the time it takes him to step back and set the staff beside the crystalline portal. “Would that I were not so blind to your desires - in the face of keeping my own in check, I…”

_ Sorry _wouldn’t even begin to scratch the surface. Mayhap he had not used him as a weapon, but reducing Salih to duty alone - to a title, with all that it might entail - is little better. In a word, he is mortified, and it takes every onze of pride he has to lift his gaze from the golden filigree of the Ocular floor to meet the Warrior’s gaze. The worst of the hurt has passed, but it still lingers in the way he holds himself. G’raha steps off of the portal’s dais, closing the fulms between them until Salih is within arm’s reach, though he does not reach just yet.

“Is it really so hard to believe? That I would want some time of my own _ here _ , with you?” One dark, calloused hand rises to bridge the gap, hesitating - G’raha wonders how best to cast that hesitance from Salih, to say _ only because I had not dared to dream you would _ \- but then the hand settles at the trail of crystal upon his cheek, and his mind goes utterly quiet.

“...Yes.”

Before Salih can respond, before that hurt can resurface and before he has a chance to draw the hand away once more G’raha fixes him with the most meaningful look he can muster, even as tears gather at the corners of his eyes.

“You must understand, Salih… the surviving history books did not make mention of me. Only of an expedition into the Tower and a great evil cast out of it. I had resigned myself as a footnote in your story, full _ glad _ for my privilege as an unsung pillar to your guiding star - and then… You remembered.” His voice wavers with the rising lump in his throat. “How I _ ached _ to reassure you as you asked after me not a bell following your arrival on the First.”

“Raha…”

The name is what does it; the name, _ his _name, foreign upon all tongues save the Warrior’s. Tears streak their way down his cheeks, and he brings his own hand up to Salih’s where it still cradles his jaw.

“This old man has made a terrible fool of himself, I’m afraid. If my fumbling has not driven you to reconsider - stay. Please. As long as you like.”

In lieu of a response G’raha finds himself swept up by one strong arm at the small of his back, lips against his own. It is not the first kiss they’d shared since their victory in Amaurot, but the ferocity that builds in this one stuns him. For a moment he can do little more than hold tight to the forest-green cloth of the Warrior’s tunic.

But he _ wants_, too. He wants to drown in this, the breadth of selfish desire he had quelled - that _ both _ had quelled, he realizes with no small amount of wonder - in the name of _ duty_. _ To hells with duty_, he thinks as he hooks an arm around Salih’s shoulders, and the ease of it surprises him. They could not set their respective mantles aside forever - but for a night, perhaps. For long enough to put the smallest dent in three centuries of separation.

He is aware of being hoisted, of strong hands at his back and thigh, and fists his hand in cloth again to steady himself. Teeth graze his lower lip and he shudders, pulling away.

“Mayhap this is- _ ah_. A conversation best held… somewhere more private?” His words turn up at the end involuntarily, given the way the Warrior’s breath finds the seam of crystal and flesh and follows it down his neck. On the periphery of his vision he can see the agitated sway of Salih’s tail behind him, spelling out his impatience.

“Any suggestions?” Comes the murmured response, felt as much as heard in the way his lips brush against skin. “Not the Pendants. If you think I’m letting go _ now _ to take you halfway across the city,you’re mad.”

The laugh that escapes G’raha is soft, all warmth and fondness - he’s veritably punch-drunk, though his cheeks are still damp with tears. The world outside the Ocular barely exists.

“Just one. Through the Umbilicus - my private chambers.”

Wordlessly, as is the Warrior’s wont, he is carried to the threshold and beyond, arms settled ‘round broad shoulders. It affords him a chance to think which he does not take. He tells himself he has earned the respite - and for once, almost believes it.

\---

The actual conversation continues much later than expected. Arrested by a more immediate need of the Warrior’s - though G’raha himself is also far, _far _from innocent in that regard - it finally resurfaces as they lie entwined somewhere deep within the Tower, a canopy of crystal overhead and a downy mattress beneath. Salih threads his fingers through silvered hair, long-loosed from its braid at the nape of G’raha’s neck to pool about crystal-flecked shoulders.

“The Scions know I’m staying, for now. As do Tataru, Krile, and the rest back on the Source.”

Too occupied in prior moments to have been worried over the _ details _ of Salih’s stay, G’raha is nonetheless relieved to hear the reassurance, the first words spoken in a quarter-bell. Salih’s head rests just below the line of his collarbone; thus it’s an easy task for G’raha to dip forward and brush a gentle kiss to one ear.

“And they found no fault in your plans?”

“None, thankfully. I didn’t want to keep them milling about the Crystarium awaiting my _ real _ departure, and word from Tataru is that she’s not expecting me back for at _ least _a sennight. Perhaps longer, if I play my cards right and the Source remains as quiet as it has been.”

“I fear whatever ‘playing your cards right’ implies for _ your _sake, given all I have learned secondhand of Tataru.”

“Oh, public relations, you know. Perhaps another three-hour fitting for yet more up-and-coming Eorzean fashion to fill my bursting wardrobe with.” Salih snorts, nuzzling closer in against the column of his neck. “I’d endure _ far _worse in exchange for this.”

G’raha flushes despite himself. Here he is, the Warrior of Light stripped bare and laid out nearly atop him, and yet it’s the unrestrained fondness in Salih’s words that disarms him more than anything else.

“I would not ask that of you - but ‘tis good to know we are of the same mind, where this is concerned.” He punctuates _ this _with a few gentle sweeps of his hand along the length of Salih’s jaw, blunted nails scritching at the dark scruff of his beard. “But, pray tell, what are your designs now that you have me?”

He expects an interest in the Crystarium proper, in spending as much time together as G’raha can commit, first and foremost. What he does not expect is the quiet that follows, the careful contemplation that suggests Salih has something more in mind than a well-earned rest.

“...When you spoke to me just before our assault on Mount Gulg, you told me I should see the First not as her savior, but as a sightseer.” The words come slowly, tentatively as if the Warrior had never afforded himself the opportunity to consider himself anything _ other _than savior. “I think I’d like that. And who better to stand alongside in that adventure than the man who loves her most?”

Gripped so fiercely by the unexpected heartfelt confession, it’s a small wonder G’raha doesn’t immediately dissolve into tears once more. Salih must feel the way he locks up, the way his chin trembles with the effort to keep the great swell of emotion in check, because his head lifts from the pillow of G’raha’s shoulder to meet his gaze.

“I… will have to r-ready the Crystarium ere my absence-” G’raha begins, halting as the sudden tightness in his throat holds his voice captive. Gone is Salih’s hand from his hair; he lifts it instead to sweep the pad of his thumb beneath each crimson eye. “A-and I cannot stay beyond the Crystarium’s walls overlong, but truly…?”

“Yes, Raha. Well and truly.”

Swept up in the moment, he very nearly confesses the true depth of his adoration then and there. Far from worried over whether Salih feels the same - the kisses to the corners of his mouth, the way he gathers G’raha closer to him, all of this speaks volumes - he is instead resolved to make the words matter, not mumble them through a fresh bout of tears. For now, he contents himself with returning the kisses with trembling ones of his own until his breathing has settled some and the worst of the tears have passed.

“I would love nothing more.”

_ I love you _is not the first secret he’s kept, nor a new one if truth be told - but it is the only one that has ever made him feel lighter for carrying it.

**Author's Note:**

> find me at my twitter scream hole [@salthien](http://twitter.com/salthien)!
> 
> title is from [Too Much Is Never Enough](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bD6sTDH9Zdc), aka the cornerstone of my still-unreleased Exarch/WoL playlist.


End file.
